Dawn Ritch, Columnist

The only thing I never understood about my late friend and colleague, Morris Cargill, was his love for his poodle Peanuts. When Peanuts started to write some of his columns, I thought he was daft.

Well, never say never. Two weeks after Morris died, I was in Negril. There for the first time I saw a litter of Shih Tzu puppies.

Morris was a Buddhist, and Buddhists believe in reincarnation. There was one little puppy who was always the first to break ranks, head out on an adventure, explore every corner, and go down every hole. I instantly called her Navigator and wondered if it was Morris come back to keep me company again.

Knowing not a thing about dogs, I decided that Navie's brother should come to protect her. He's called Chubba, and roars like a lion. That is, until he went to doggie camp for the first time.

Chubba is a little dog, and I made the mistake of sending him to a place where big dogs as well as little dogs were being boarded. My poor little lion returned with a permanent voice change. Less guttural of course. Navie didn't speak to me for days. I instantly realised some big dog or other had humiliated Chubba publicly, and made it clear that he didn't know he was a little dog. Chubba had been neutered by a social exchange.

This dog had bit my nose because he didn't like it when I blew in his face. Yet at doggie camp he had an experience whic his voice. I'm sure it was an unkind comment by a large dog. Much like when young Jamaican humans of all shades go abroad, and somebody tells them they're black. It gives some people a chip, and others laugh it off. Chubba didn't laugh it off.

Playful

Nevertheless, nobody dares come near my car or gate. Chubba still throws himself on the door, roaring like a madman, and tears my seat belts to shreds. Everyone scatters. They always think he's a small dog and want to pet him. But he knows he's a big dog and will tear them apart.

I did neuter Chubba, but I can assure you that that is not when his voice changed. He had to remain in the vet's office over the weekend after surgery, because Navie was on heat and he was still interested.

I took her to a house in the mountains that weekend, and kept her on a leash. The caretaker had a large dog tied up on a rope in the yard. All the dog could do was move with the shade.

I asked for the dog to be released. A little later on the veranda a very happy big dog came around to say 'hi', his tail wagging. He jumped into my lap and started licking my face.

Navie would have none of it. I found myself in the middle of a dog war. That made me realise Navie didn't know she was little either. I had to snarl at them both to restore calm.

Thank heavens she was alone! Because I recently found myself in another dog war with her and her brother, this time on the sidewalk with a big dog who slipped the lead of her owner. That time I had to scream for help.

The intellectual

She could have snapped Chubba's neck in an instant, she had it in her jaws so long. She held him to the pavement, while Navie tried to get at her throat. If the big dog hadn't been a bitch, Chubba would be dead by now. He had growled at the big dog, who found it insulting and went for his throat.

Navie is the intellectual in the family. She speaks six languages. Each of them a tonally different short bark which has nothing to do with the raucous she raises over intruders and thieves. One of them means 'You've forgotten Chubba in the garden for hours now, and he's hot'. Or it can mean she wants to go outside and use the bathroom herself. Or, 'give me my food, I'm ready now.' Or her ball is out of reach. All I have to do is follow her to find out which is which.

I have now discovered Mrs. Jennifer Rutty. She has a small doggie camp, is a breeder of six different kinds of toy dogs, and has at least 20 of her own.

Four-month-old runt

That was how I met Wingie, the four-month-old runt of a litter. He had the face of a monkey and sat like one too. I almost expected him to climb a tree.

I took him home. Things looked hopeful in the car. Navie let him have one of my knees, while she had the other, and I drove. Chubba smelt him up in the car. Maybe a third dog would be all right even if it hadn't been successful before. Maybe Wingie would be different because he was the runt of a toy breed, and the last puppy had been a Weimaraner crossed with a Great Dane.

For the next 24 hours Wingie refused to have a drop to drink much less anything to eat. That night, my two dogs got their towels as beds beside mine, and so did Wingie. During the night I heard him stirring and got up to check on him. He rolled over and gave me his stomach to pat. I thought I'd won him over.

But the next day he still wouldn't drink any water. I knew then that he'd prefer to die rather than live without Mrs. Rutty. So I took him back.

When I got to the gate he flew out of my arms and up the driveway round the back. I followed him. All the other dogs there fell silent. I called out to Mrs. Rutty who, when she spotted him, rushed to the door and cried 'Wingie'! It was a mother and son reunited.

Last week I went to collect my dogs who'd spent a week with Mrs. Rutty on her gourmet cuisine. (All they ever get with me is dry dog food, and a little chicken back as a treat). So I asked to see Wingie.

Wingie's niece, Mrs. Rutty's grand-daughter, brought him to me where I sat. He stared at me in stark horror. As soon as I took him home from Crystal he wee'd all over me ... my arms, my lap, my legs were dripping.

Mrs. Rutty cried out: "He never does that! What did you do to him?" Just tried to take him away from his mother, that's all. And five months later he still had not forgotten.

When children who don't like to read or who stutter, read to dogs, it improves their reading and their speech. This is because a dog is non-judgmental, and wonderfully attentive when spoken to in a calm manner. Petting dogs also lowers the heart rate of elderly people. No wonder Morris let Peanuts write his column.